Grounded
by Lynn Saunders
Summary: Modern Day AU, Coffee House Fic. Fluff? Probably. Based on a prompt from awesomegreentie. We started with a T rating, but who was I kidding? We promptly moved up to a strong M at Chapter 5.
1. Introductions

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 1: Introductions**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

The coffee house is dark and warm despite the frigid air outside. The lingering sweet smell of fresh milk and steam layers bright over the deeper notes of ground beans, and John sighs, the old hardwood creaking as he moves to hang his coat. He takes a deep breath and ties on a fresh apron.

Thomas bangs in behind him, muffling curses at the cold and the hour, and John simply shakes his head as he goes about setting the bar stools down from the counters. He moves to the windows, adjusting the blinds and flipping the open sign. Outside, the sun is breaking the horizon, and soon the regulars will start streaming in before work. He washes up, drying his hands on the towel at his hip and straightening his tie, trying not to smile as he thinks of the one person in particular that he always hopes to see.

He's been here three months now, and she comes in most days, the petite blonde who tips him so well. They share brief conversations over the counter until she moves out of the way of the next in line. She has golden hair, elfin eyes, and a warm smile that she seems to flash conspiratorily for his benefit. Maybe he imagines that last part, though. Maybe she's only being kind.

Lately these cold winter mornings have seen her chilled to the bone from the walk despite her heavy coat and scarf, and she sighs happily when he settles a warm drink into her hands. He's taken to writing her name on her cup as soon as he sees her coming. Anna. She should be here any minute. As if on cue, the front door jangles, and he moves to the counter with a smile. It's not her, though. He tries not to look disappointed.

After the first few customers filter in, a calm usually precedes the morning rush, and today is no different. John shines the counters while William sips his morning tea. The lad doesn't argue with opening the shop an hour early to meet the delivery truck, so John doesn't begrudge him an extra break. He's a hard worker, but beyond that, he seems loyal and honest.

"What are your plans for the weekend, Mr. Bates?"

John sighs. "Not much, I'm afraid."

Thomas moves in from the store room, interrupting. "Grocery shopping with your Mum doesn't really count as a big night out, after all."

"I should think I would like it very much if mine were still alive," William retorts. The lad has only recently lost his mother.

John shoots a warning glare across the bar as Thomas smirks, and the bells on the front door chime once more. The morning rush is on. By eight o'clock, he's four orders deep, and the little shop is bustling with activity. He's given up all hope of seeing her, when suddenly she's pushing through the door. He moves to the counter, and William glances between them curiously before making himself useful elsewhere.

"Had you given up on me?" she asks, smiling.

"Never." He's not seen her in casual clothing before, and he tries not to stare at the way the rich blue of her sweater brings out her eyes. "The usual?"

She nods and moves to settle into a chair by the window. This is new. She's never stayed before. He hesitates only a moment before adding a bit of fresh gingerbread to her order and delivering it to her table in person. When she raises her eyebrows, he tells her it's on the house.

She looks genuinely touched. "Thank you," she says. "You know, you're always so kind to me, and I don't even know your-"

She's cut off by the crash of dishes against the floor and Thomas' voice carrying from the back, "Watch where you're going, you clumsy clodhopper!" Anna smiles sympathetically up at him as he makes his apologies and bustles off to deal with the commotion. By the time he returns, she's gone. In her place is his tip and a little note, jotted on the back of her folded receipt. _I never got your name._

He tucks the scrap of paper into his dress shirt pocket with a smile.

* * *

She's rounding the corner in the market aisle, mentally reviewing the contents of her small pantry, when she runs headlong into a rather large gentleman. The man takes an uneven step backward, and she drops the few groceries she's carrying, reflexively reaching out to steady him with both hands, holding fast to his forearms. "Oh, I am so sorry!" She looks up into his eyes, and her heart skips a beat.

She'd known he was a tall drink of water, but standing this close to him emphasizes their height difference in a way that she's never before considered. She returns his smile, then releases her grip on him quickly, fearing her touch has lingered a bit too long.

"Anna?" The lines around his eyes deepen, and he smiles down at her. He gives an embarrassed chuckle, shaking his head slightly as if he worries she won't be able to place him. "I'm-"

"The barista on High Street." She's had a crush on him for months.

He gives a lopsided grin. "John Bates," he says. His hand is large and warm, and he shakes hers firmly.

"I'm Anna Smith."

"It's nice to finally meet you properly." He stoops to retrieve her two bags of whole bean special dark roast from the floor.

At his quizzical look, she gives an exasperated little sigh, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I have quite the caffeine problem, I'm afraid."

He laughs, and they smile shyly at one another for a moment. He clears his throat. "Well, Miss Smith, I hope you have a good evening."

"You too, Mr. Bates," she nods. Neither of them turns away.

Suddenly a small, grey-haired woman appears beside him. "Oh, Johnny, there you are." The older woman turns her attention to Anna. "I'm afraid my boy's long legs carry him much too fast for me," she says, leaning in as if she's confiding in an old friend. His mother's eyes hold the same mischievous twinkle that Anna has admired so often from the coffee line. Anna likes her immediately.

The older woman looks back and forth between them expectantly, and he runs a hand awkwardly through his hair as he makes introductions. "Anna is a regular at the store, Mum."

His mother's eyes are friendly, her manner genuine. "Oh, lovely," she says. "I'm more of a tea drinker myself, but the shop is so nice."

"The best," Anna replies, and the creases around his eyes deepen.

Mrs. Bates pats her son's arm. "They've got wonderful sweets, too."

Anna smiles, thinking of the gingerbread, and she wonders if she sees something shift in his expression too, or whether it's her imagination. It's the question that warms her all the way home.

* * *

* Beta by terriejane and giginutshell.

* This is my first foray into modern day AU. This story is based off of a prompt from awesomegreentie. You have her to thank for this.


	2. Invitation

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 2: Invitation**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

Anna was hoping a week away from the office would help her relax, but it's only day two, and she has already responded to a dozen work emails, cleaned the top of the refrigerator, and dusted all of the baseboards in her flat as an outlet for her nervous energy. She'd longed for a break from the monotony of the daily routine at the agency, but now that she's immersed in free time, she can't quite rest. It doesn't help that she can't push away the memory of barrelling into the tall barista, of his kind eyes and warm, strong hands. Now _there's_ a potential distraction she would eagerly employ if given the opportunity, and the thought of it makes her face burn. Unrealistic, she thinks sadly. Alas, Anna's recent Saturday nights have consisted of Netflix and takeout, pajamas by eight o'clock. Gwen knows this, of course, so tonight she crashes the party. She might not be Anna's oldest friend, but she's definitely her closest, and thank God she's here.

"You ran into the hot coffee bloke?!"

Anna nods and covers her eyes with her hand briefly. The more she thinks about it, the more embarrassing it is. In the moment, he'd made everything seem so comfortable.

"You physically ran into him, you mean? You bowled him over?" Gwen looks as if she's trying not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"I hit him hard enough that he stumbled, and I dropped my things."

Gwen snorts. "Nothing embarrassing, I hope. Like a bunch of tampons and ice cream?"

Anna grins, shaking her head. "Or a giant box of condoms?"

"As if you'd need a giant box of condoms."

Anna narrows her eyes with mock indignation, and Gwen lifts both hands in surrender.

"It was coffee, actually."

"What?"

"Coffee beans."

"You ran into the barista while you were carrying coffee beans?" Gwen is incredulous. "Well, there you have it. It's fate. There's nothing anyone can do about it now; the stars have aligned."

"But no pressure, right?" Anna laughs, rolling her eyes for her friend's benefit. She shakes crushed red pepper onto her pizza while Gwen makes a face.

"It's time for you to get back out there, though. Past time."

"So you've said."

Gwen takes another bite, munching thoughtfully. "What was in his basket?"

"He didn't have one, actually. I think he was helping his Mum with her grocery shopping."

Gwen blinks at her for a moment. "So, here is a bloke who you think is quite easy on the eyes, who gives you free desserts, is sweet enough to take his mother grocery shopping on the weekend - which, by the way, is just about the cutest thing I've ever heard of - and he makes a mean latte? It's obvious you fancy him. What are you waiting for, exactly?"

Anna sighs and sips her wine. That is the question, isn't it?

* * *

On Monday morning, Anna once again appears later than usual at the coffee house door. She takes the overstuffed chair by the shop's small open hearth and pulls out a book. When he delivers her order with a fresh blueberry muffin on the side, she gives him an endearing little smirk.

"Mr. Bates... Thank you."

"You're one of my best customers. I want to keep you happy."

On the contrary, simply hearing her say his name that way, drawing out the vowel in her Yorkshire lilt, is worth any number of homemade treats, but he's nowhere near brave enough to say it. The fire is burning low, so he moves to tend it, adding another log, and he thinks he can feel her eyes on him as he works.

"This is a wonderful old storefront," she says. "I love being able to sit by the fire like this."

He grins down at her. "You should do it more often." It suits you, he thinks, then he looks away quickly, running his hand along the stone mantle.

"Well, I'll enjoy it while I can. Come next week, I'll be back from my holiday."

"Ah, so that's why you're suddenly not part of the early morning crowd." They hold each other's gaze for a long moment, and he finds that his next words tumble out with surprising ease. "Will we be seeing you tomorrow night, then?"

At her confused expression, he retrieves a flier from the front counter. "We're having an open house of sorts."

"Oh? I hadn't seen the announcement."

He nods and dips his head. "Yes, well, unfortunately advertising is not our strong suit."

She laughs. "I could help you, you know. It's what I do." She fishes a business card out of her bag and offers it to him.

 _Anna May Smith, Crawley Promotions._ He wonders in passing if she might know Rob.

"I wouldn't want to be a bother."

She smiles. "I'd like to do something to make up for all of the complimentary treats. That's, um... That's my mobile number on the back." Her cheeks flush just a little, he thinks. Just barely.

"Well, I hope you'll come to the party, then. We'll have cake."

"You know what I like," she says, and they grin at each other until the chime of the front door pulls him away. Later, as Anna leaves, their eyes meet across the room, and she nods at him before ducking out into the bright blue winter afternoon.

In the kitchen, William catches John studying her name and number. "You two seem to get on well."

John carefully tucks the card into his breast pocket. "Do we?" He focuses on cleaning a large carafe so that he'll have an excuse not to look up.

Thomas has chosen this moment to return from his smoke break, and he scoffs at the idea. "Fat chance of anything coming of it. Bates here is old enough to be her dad."

John fixes him with a withering glare. "Just how old do you think I am, exactly?"

Thomas shrugs and slouches against the counter.

"He got her number, didn't he?" William retorts, and John raises his eyebrows at that, but says nothing further on the matter.

Of course, Thomas can't leave it there. "Out of pity, maybe."

He lets the carafe clank heavily into the sink. "Are you going to actually do any work today?" He knows he shouldn't react, but there's just something about Thomas that sets his teeth on edge. The younger man smirks, and John kicks himself for letting his impatience show.

"You don't run this place, Mr. Bates."

John can only give an enigmatic smile in answer.

* * *

* Beta by terriejane and giginutshell.

* I am American, and I'm insecure about my modern day conversational British English. Please let me know if I have botched things up terribly.


	3. Stroll

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 3: Stroll**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

On Tuesday morning, she doesn't come in. He looks up with a smile each time the bells on the shop door jangle, but it's never her.

It's three weeks to Christmas, and outside the large windows, High Street is coming alive with the season. Wreaths are affixed to every storefront, covered in golden ribbons and red berries, the silver of their holiday bells glinting in the pure white light of the winter morning. Between the university students preparing for the end of term and the Christmas shoppers strolling High Street, the coffee house should stay quite busy. The shop is certainly bustling with activity this morning, and he's kept occupied by a steady flow of customers until well past noon, when he finally leaves the front counter in William's capable hands and takes a seat at the little secluded table by the rear door, presumably to eat his lunch.

Instead, he holds her card between his thumb and forefinger, tapping it absently against his mobile. He keys in her number, then starts and erases several messages before letting the phone clatter to the tabletop with a sigh. He's woefully out of practice. He was never much good at this, honestly.

He tries to focus on preparations for the evening. The desserts for tonight are made. The mantle is decked in greenery, and he's bought proper linens and candles for the tables. With the fire going, it should be quite a lovely scene. He and William need only stay on top of the regular cleaning so that it doesn't stack up toward closing. He'll have to leave a bit early, make the short walk to his flat for a fresh shave and a change, and be back in an hour, ready to greet the public in his new suit. He's already a bit nervous.

His mobile buzzes, and he opens a message from Robert. _Cora wants to know if you need anything for tonight._

He shakes his head and answers right back. _Not a thing._

Robert has already given much more help than he can ever repay. He shifts his right leg at a sudden memory, the burst of searing hot pain that accompanied the sniper's bullet, then he stills, breathes to calm himself, and pushes those thoughts away. Even after everything he's been through, he feels they're more than even. Robert, he knows, would disagree. His old friend has told John more than once that he deserves nothing but happiness, that it's an honor to be able to help.

Happiness.

He sighs as he scrolls to Anna's number once more. Should he have called her last night? It seemed too soon, and he didn't want her to think him... overeager. Now he wonders if waiting was a mistake. Has she stayed away this morning because she'll be coming in tonight, or because he hasn't rung her? She wouldn't give him her card if she didn't want him to use it, he reasons. Still, it would be so much easier to see her in person. If she were here, he'd just bring her a treat, and perhaps they'd fall into easy conversation. An idea blooms then, and he smiles, rising carefully and making his way to the kitchen. The cake for the evening's party rests behind the delicate glass of his mother's antique dessert stand. He lifts the lid and snaps a photo, taking a deep breath before he clicks send.

The bells at the front ring once more, and he returns to help William as a large group of students filter in. They buy him out of cookies, and he wishes them luck as they settle into the cluster of tables in the far corner, lugging books and laptops. He returns promptly to the kitchen, pulling the cookie dough from the refrigerator and getting two more batches into the oven. Only then does he tentatively pull his phone from his apron pocket. She's already messaged him back, and he doesn't even try to suppress his smile as he brings up the photo.

A deep blue ceramic coffee mug is set against a stark white table. Colorful couch cushions are visible in the background, where a rather large black cat is sleeping with the white of its belly exposed. _My coffee isn't as good as yours._

He hesitates only a moment before typing his response. _Might I offer you some proper coffee tonight, then?_ He watches as she receives the message and grins when he sees that she's typing a response.

 _I wouldn't miss it._

* * *

She'd hoped to be fashionably late, but now she's simply quite late. Anna steps out of the cab and adjusts the strap on her heels, hoping she's not ridiculously overdressed. An hour earlier, Gwen had sat cross-legged on her bed, eating popcorn and scrolling through her mobile as Anna reviewed the contents of her friend's closet aloud. Gwen kept repeating, "wear the little black dress," without looking up, until Anna finally relented.

The shop's door rings a familiar welcome, and she brushes snow from her shoulders, hanging her coat on the rack by the door. The store is handsomely decorated for the party, and she smiles approvingly at the formal tablecloths and candlelight, pleasantly surprised by the modest crowd that's come out for the evening. Her favorite barista is nowhere to be found. She lingers in the doorway, suddenly feeling a bit unsure until a familiar figure catches sight of her and waves her in.

Mary is perfectly polished and put together as always, and she looks Anna up and down. "Maybe I'm only used to seeing you in work clothes, but you look bloody fantastic. Are you going out after?"

Anna's cheeks color. "Oh, no, I just felt like dressing up a little."

"Well, we're headed to the pub later. I've left George with a sitter and dragged Matthew out for the evening, so we aren't going home any time soon. I'm not sure how many people will be out on a weeknight, but you're welcome to come with us, of course."

Anna nods politely and looks around the room. She still can't find him. She gives a little sigh and searches for a thread of conversation. She likes Mary, and they've gotten on well together for years as Anna worked her way up in the firm, but she still feels a little self-conscious around her boss in social situations. "So, what's brought you out tonight?"

Mary smiles and rolls her eyes. "The new owner is an old mate of Dad's, so we're here to make sure the turnout is sufficient. And you?"

"Oh... I've a friend who works here."

"I was thinking it's an awfully small account to go after, especially while on holiday. It's a nice place, though, and the new owner is practically family to us." Mary nods toward the crowd in the middle of the room. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

When Anna finally catches sight of him, she's immediately glad she wore the dress. Mr. Bates is coming in through the kitchen door with another tall gentleman, who claps him on the back and shakes his hand. He's in a tailored charcoal suit, his crisp white shirt open at the collar, and judging from the smoldering way he looks at her when their eyes lock together, he likes what he sees as well.

Suddenly, Mary is trying to make introductions. "John, this is-"

"Anna," he says, squeezing her hand.

She smiles up at him and bids him good evening.

"So this is your friend who works here, then?" Mary asks with a wry grin. She turns to the other gentleman. "Anna, this is my father, Robert. Dad, this is Anna Smith."

Robert shakes her hand firmly. "Are you the Anna who just won the Quigley account?"

She nods. "One and the same."

"Well done." He nudges John with his shoulder. "You know, as of tonight, Bates here owns this place outright."

Anna doesn't try to stop herself from beaming. "That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

John gives a self-deprecating chuckle. "Well," he says, "I've had a lot of help."

"It's nothing you don't deserve," Robert replies before turning to Mary. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to Cora." He waves to a slender, dark-haired woman across the room, who gives him a strained smile. "I've left her with your grandma, and we need to intervene before they take up weapons."

"Oh, heavens, I'll come with you," Mary sighs, and just like that, Anna is left alone with her Mr. Bates.

"The shop looks beautiful tonight," she says.

He smiles conspiratorially, leaning in as if he's about to give a cheeky response, but he must think better of it, because he simply shakes her hand again instead. "Thank you for coming."

They stare at one another for a moment, and she lets her fingers linger against his perhaps a bit too long, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Now," he says finally, "what about that coffee?"

"It sounds lovely."

He directs her to sit at the counter and moves around to the back, tying on his familiar apron and starting her favorite caramel latte. She watches him work, smiling as he goes through the familiar routine. He's just placing the steaming cup in front of her when a younger man moves in quickly from the kitchen.

"Mr. Bates," he says in a low voice, "Thomas has gone."

John's expression shifts, his eyebrows knitting together. "What?"

"He got angry when Mr. Crawley announced that you were taking over, and he's walked out."

John looks around the room at the growing crowd for a moment, then assures William everything will be fine, that he will help serve in Thomas' stead. He turns to Anna. "It seems the hurdles of small business ownership are making themselves known right away."

"At least you're already wearing an apron," she points out.

He grins at her, his green eyes flashing, and it's the hint of something wonderful she sees there that keeps her lingering at the party as the next few hours pass. Mr. Bates moves about the room, balancing the large tray with practiced ease. He fields comments about his server's role with grace and good humor, and she finds herself casually tracking his comings and goings. Their eyes meet periodically, and he always smiles.

She's more relaxed now, and she falls into an easy rapport with Mary. She is introduced to the entire Crawley family, including Mary's sisters, and they all speak of John lovingly. Anna politely declines repeated invitations to accompany them all to the pub, and Mary finally lets the topic drop with a knowing smile. She meets the other server, William, who recognizes her immediately and thanks her for coming. When Anna happens upon Mrs. Bates in the crowd, the sweet old woman greets her warmly.

"It's Margaret, Dear. Now, come with me, and let's get a piece of this cake."

It's tart and sweet, and the lemon glaze makes it melt in her mouth. She closes her eyes for a moment. "I think this is the best cake I've ever tasted."

"Oh, yes, Dear. Johnny has perfected this old recipe of mine. It's an Irish Lemon, but he's taken out the whiskey."

Anna stops and stares with her fork in midair. "He made this?"

"Well, he makes all of the sweets for the shop by hand. Didn't he tell you?" She chuckles at Anna's shocked expression. "He's the second best baker in the family," she adds with a wink.

As the clock strikes nine, most everyone has made a move to leave. Mrs. Bates graciously accepts Robert's offer of a ride home, and John moves to the doorway to give his mother a hug before she goes.

"Thank you, Mum," he whispers, and Margaret smiles up and him, pinching his cheek.

"Anna, it was wonderful to see you again," she says before turning to her son once more. "I trust you'll see this lovely girl to her door," she adds in plain earshot of everyone, and John chuckles, nodding dutifully as she steps out into the winter night on Robert's arm.

Anna and John stand at the window together, watching as his mother settles gingerly into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes outside. When the car pulls away, he turns to her in the candlelight. She can hear only their breathing, the faint sounds of William moving around in the back. Other than that, she realizes, they're suddenly alone once more.

"I should probably head on," she says, plucking her coat from the rack. "It really was a wonderful evening."

He takes the coat from her gently and helps her on with it in the entryway. She turns back to tell him goodnight, and he's closer than she thought, but neither of them move away.

"Anna…" He searches her face for a moment. "Let me walk you home."

How can she possibly refuse him when he's looking at her that way? Better still, why would she want to?

He locks the door, then moves about the room, extinguishing candles and banking the fire before ushering her behind the counter and into the kitchen. It's clean and warm, and William, who's sweeping the floors, stops and stares for a moment before giving her a small smile. "I can finish up here, Mr. Bates, if you want to go on ahead."

"I'll just see Anna home, then I'll swing back to check in."

William waves him off. "Go home, Mr. Bates."

John finally nods, slinging on his overcoat, and they duck out through the back door. The December evening is frigid, and she draws her coat close around her as they fall in step easily together, sharing a companionable silence for a bit, as if it's nothing new.

"My flat isn't far, really. Just a few blocks up, on Eighth."

He looks at her, surprised. "I live a few blocks up, on Eighth."

She grins up at him. "I suppose our schedules don't align, and that's why we never run into one another."

"Except at the market," he says with a warm smile.

She covers her eyes with her hand briefly. "Except, quite literally, at the market."

"Don't be embarrassed," he says. "I'm the one who should be embarrassed, since my Friday night plans involve taking a feisty eighty year-old woman grocery shopping."

"I think it's nice," she says, and he dips his head. "She's wonderful."

"She likes you, you know. And she doesn't fall right in with many people."

Around them, the night air holds a distinct wet chill, and tiny snowflakes begin to fall once more as they cross over Sixth and High. Her feet are cold, and she really should've worn more sensible shoes if she was going to agree to trudge through the weather with him at her side, but in this moment, she doesn't care.

"It's funny, I feel like I know you," she says presently, tucking her hair behind her ears. "But beyond seeing you nearly every day in the coffee line, I suppose I don't really."

He hums thoughtfully, his hands in his coat pockets, and looks at her from the corners of his eyes. "Well, I'm a bit over forty."

She laughs. "I'm a bit over thirty."

"How long have you been at Mary's firm?"

"I guess it's been almost ten years now. What about you? How long have you been a top barista?"

He squints down at her, finding that she did intend the small joke, and she can tell he's pleased by it.

"Well, only the few months I've been at the shop, actually. Before that, I retired from the army and moved here to be closer to Mum, since she's getting older. Rob helped me find the just the right little shop to buy."

She wonders briefly why he retired at such an early age, but doesn't ask that question just yet. The snow is starting to stick, and the pavement is getting slushy, creating a wet crunch with every step. She slows down a bit, and he matches her speed.

"What else would you like to know?" he asks playfully.

"What else should I know?"

He falls silent for a moment, then sighs. "I'm divorced, and recently at that."

She stands up a little straighter, rolling her shoulders back . "So am I."

"Well, I'm sorry, but that bloke must be an idiot."

She laughs then. "I'm not going to argue with that."

Fat snowflakes begin to fall as they reach her door. "I'm sorry to get you stuck out in the weather like this, Mr. Bates."

He shrugs off her apology, and they step in under her building's awning together, tucked into a haven from the snowfall. They don't quite fit though, and flakes fall onto the back of his collar as she turns and looks up into his eyes.

"I was glad of the walk, and it's on my way home." He moves almost imperceptibly closer. "You can call me John, by the way, if you'd like to." She can feel his hesitation before he adds, "I don't want you to think you need to address me formally, even if I do love the way you say _Bates_."

"Are you trying to tell me you'd like to get to know me better too, then?" She's feeling rather brave this evening, after all.

He goes very still for a moment, swallowing hard, and suddenly his expression is unreadable. Oh God, she's misread everything. She's teased him without thinking, and now he's taken offense. Damn them and their easy camaraderie. She fears what's coming, but she can't turn her eyes away. She watches as he sets his jaw, preparing to be let down gently, but when his next words come, they're soft and low. They're meant only for her.

"I would like that very much."

It suddenly dawns on her that he is even more nervous than she, and the thought makes her bold. The wool of his overcoat is warm beneath her fingertips despite the chill outside as she rises on tiptoe, her hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. She kisses his cheek softly, and he looks down at her in wonder.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bates."

"Goodnight, Anna."

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, walking backward a few steps, holding her gaze and smiling, before finally turning his collar up and heading back out into the winter evening. She watches him until he's obscured by the haze of the falling snow.

* * *

* Beta by terriejane and giginutshell.

* awesomegreentie got to pick Mrs. Bates' name, since this fic is for her.

* giginutshell requested that Anna have a cat. Of course, being a cat person, I was happy to oblige and had in fact already written him in.


	4. Alchemy

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 4: Alchemy**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

Wednesday afternoon finds John still grinning over the memory of Anna in the warm glow of the streetlamp, the slide of her small hands across his shoulders as she kissed his cheek softly. He'd managed to articulate his desire to see her again, but hadn't actually succeeded in securing a date, distracted as he was. Amateur, he thinks with a smile.

Beyond the coffee shop windows, the sky is dull and grey, pot-bellied clouds looming low on the horizon. The weather has held off so far, though, and a surprising number of customers have found their way in despite the ominous forecast, obviously preferring to have their caffeine before the weather becomes unfit for man or beast. He wipes down the front counter, and when he looks up again, Anna is coming through the front door.

"Hello," he says softly, and they grin at one another.

He offers her a steaming cup, and she settles into her favorite fireside chair with a book. Customers come and go, making it difficult to wander over for a chat. Typically, there would also be the matter of searching for an excuse to talk to her, but he realizes somewhat giddily that he no longer requires one. She wants to get to know him better. The idea warms him from the inside out.

Finally, there's a sufficient lull in foot traffic, and he's making his way over just as she looks at her watch and begins readying to leave. She's throwing her bag over her shoulder, bending to collect her empty mug, and he thinks he's left a reasonable distance between them for a quick goodbye. Instead, she turns rapidly just as he's about to speak, nearly colliding with him again. Thankfully, she doesn't drop the coffee cup.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she giggles.

He has reflexively caught her by the shoulders, steadying her, and she smiles shyly as he releases her.

"We've got to stop running into each other this way, Miss Smith."

She laughs outright at that, tucking her hair behind her ears with her free hand, clutching the mug tightly with the other. "Is there some other way to go about it, Mr. Bates?"

"Actually, yes." He chuckles, searching her eyes for a moment, finding a warmth there that gives him courage. "You could have dinner with me."

"I would like that very much," she says, and when he realizes she's repeating his words from the night before, his heart does a stutter step. "I'm supposed to be Christmas shopping with a friend tonight, but…"

"I certainly hope you'll not have to be out of doors in this." He gestures vaguely to the darkening sky beyond the glass.

"Knowing Gwen, yes, I'm sure of it. She has notoriously bad timing. I'm a bit late to meet her now, actually." She gives him a wry smile, but her expression softens as she adds, "I'm free tomorrow, though."

"Tomorrow it is." He gently takes her empty mug, and their fingertips meet for a moment. "Should I ring you tonight, then? Once you're home?"

"That would be lovely."

She squeezes his arm as she moves to go, and he watches her cross the street as a steady drizzle begins to fall outside. He feels as if he might wear a smile as he goes about his days from now on, and in the evening, John receives a text from her as he carefully prepares the menu for the week.

 _Finally headed home :)_

He slips his mobile back into his pocket with a grin and washes up, rolling his sleeves for the task at hand. The coffee house kitchen is peaceful, and he enjoys focusing this way, kneading the dough, working with his hands, the attention to detail, making something substantial and real. They've had a slow night due to the poor weather, and his mother has dropped by for a cuppa. She's currently perched on the little wooden stool by the back door, sipping her tea and bestowing advice upon him as he works - two of her favorite things.

"Careful, now."

John gingerly rolls and stretches the dough as his mother supervises, even though they've been making homemade phyllo together since he was a boy.

"Now, nice and easy, then."

The same hovering manner that annoyed him so when he was young and foolish is now only endearing, and he smiles to himself as they work. His mother eyes him over the top of her glasses.

"That Anna seems lovely," she says nonchalantly, and John barks a laugh. She waves her hand in his direction, and he knows if he were close enough, she'd swat his arm. "Well, she does," she insists.

He hums his agreement, raising his eyebrows, and continues to work. He won't meet his mother's eyes, and he knows that she knows. She doesn't hide her smile.

* * *

Anna tosses the duvet off with a sigh and sits up against the headboard. The electric green glow of the alarm clock bothers her eyes, and she glares at it until the numbers turn over. It's just past five in the morning. She finally gives in and retrieves her mobile from the nightstand. She's up, there's no getting out of it now, and this infernal cold has her head throbbing. She needs some tea, but she's too miserable to be bothered with making any just now. Castle appraises her cooly, swishing his tail, before curling back up at the foot of the bed.

"A lot of help you are," she complains with a smile.

Yesterday morning, she'd felt a bit dodgy, but chalked it up to the tiredness that often settles in when her schedule changes. She tried to shake it off, but somewhere between shopping and dinner at the pub, a distinct scratchiness had settled into her throat. Why she allowed Gwen to drag her out through the icy drizzle, she'll never know. She's certainly paying the price for it now. She narrows her eyes in suspicion as she remembers the covert sniffling of the cabbie the other evening. Fantastic. This is just fantastic. She never gets sick, and of course it has to be today of all days.

When John rang her yesterday evening, he'd noted the fatigue in her voice and asked if she felt well. She'd admitted rather sheepishly that being out in the weather certainly hadn't helped things. She had bundled into her blankets, assuring him she'd feel fine in time for their plans and promptly downing two cups of echinacea tea with lemon and honey to try to ward off whatever was coming, but it was no use. Now, she's stuck in bed with a raging headache and bleary eyes.

She knows he's awake; he opens the store at six. And, she reasons, she won't want to bother him at work. There's no way around it- she'll have to cancel. Hopefully he won't think her too rude. She pulls up his name and types a message, her thumb hovering over the send button as she considers her wording. He'd been so obviously nervous the other night under the awning, as if it had ever crossed her mind to turn him down. She'd honestly never considered he might be that timid with her until he looked into her eyes and told her he'd like to get to know her better. She doesn't want to do anything to make him think she's bowing out for any reason other than illness. She doesn't want to back out at the last moment either. She's just about to click send when her phone buzzes. Of course, it's him.

 _How are you feeling?_

She smiles, then sneezes into her tissues and gives a loud sigh. This isn't fair. Resigned, she types her reply. _I'm not well at all, actually._

 _:( I'm sorry to hear it._

She's holding the phone, considering what else to say, when her flat's buzzer rings loudly. She groans and trudges to the door with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, preparing to tell Gwen to sod off, but when she answers, his gentle voice greets her instead.

"Anna?"

"Mr. Bates?"

"I hope I haven't woken you, but I've brought you something."

"No, I'm awake… just not very put together, I'm afraid."

"I'll bring it up, then be on my way. It will only take a moment."

She takes a deep breath, pushing the button next to the intercom and moving to check her reflection in the entryway mirror. She tries to smooth her hair into place. Oh well. She feels as if they've done everything else out of order, so he might as well see her like this now.

His tap at the door is soft and polite. She opens it, drawing the edges of the duvet closed over her shoulders. He's in a dark wool pea coat and cap, and he smiles warmly down at her. He's holding a basket loaded with homemade food, which he extends to her somewhat shyly. She is so touched that she doesn't know what to say.

"It's chicken soup, my family's recipe. Guaranteed to cure all that ails you."

She smiles and takes the offered basket. "I don't know what to-"

A rattling noise sounds across the hall, interrupting, and Mrs. O'Connell glares at them from her open door before disappearing back inside.

They laugh quietly together, and she grips the basket's handle with both hands, gazing up at him openly. "Thank you," she says softly. "So very much."

"I hope you like it."

"I hope it works," she says, and he laughs again. "I should hate to interrupt our plans."

His eyes crinkle. "No," he replies gently, "we can't have that."

She feels moved to rise on tiptoe and kiss him again, maybe just on the cheek as before, but she doesn't want him to catch her cold. Thankfully, he seems to understand. He gives her a nod and turns to go, glancing back toward the door with a smile before he heads down the stairs.

She lugs the overburdened basket to her kitchen and surveys the contents - two large containers of hot soup, a loaf of homemade bread wrapped in brown paper, a surprisingly large dish of Irish butter, and fresh strawberry jam. Soon, she's nestled beneath her covers again, sipping chicken soup from her favorite mug, pulling the bread apart and dipping it into the cup with a smile. After her meal, she curls up, ready to do some reading on her mobile, but sleep pulls at her once more, and she slowly lets her eyes drift shut.

When she wakes again in the late afternoon, her head is remarkably clear. She takes a tentative swallow of water from the glass on her bedside table. Her throat is no longer on fire. She snuggles back down against the pillow, glancing at her mobile and seeing that she has another text from him.

 _How are you feeling now?_

She smiles as she types. _Much better._

 _I'm relieved to hear it._

 _Remarkably better, actually._

 _I told you the soup would fix anything._

She throws off the covers and rises somewhat unsteadily. She's not had a sleep like that in ages. Yawning, she pads to the shower, letting the water run hot before stepping in under the spray. She emerges feeling renewed, if a bit sleepy yet, and she finds she's hungry again. What she really wants, though, is some red wine and good company.

As she towels her hair, she thinks of the warmth in his eyes, his beaming, crooked smile after she'd given him a peck on the cheek. No, there's no mistaking what's building between them, and she knows it's up to her to take the next step. Bringing the basket was a big risk for him. She gets the feeling that he's the type of person who is only sociable with a select few, but once you've won him, you're his forever. The thought gives her a hot flush of anticipation, and she bites her lip as she sends her next message. _I suspect it's probably too late to salvage dinner reservations, but I feel well enough for company. We could order in?_

His answer is immediate. _I wouldn't miss it._

* * *

When he arrives at her door again, he has removed his tie, and his dress shirt collar is open. He hangs his coat and cap neatly on the rack by her door as she welcomes him inside.

"Shoes?" he asks, noting her socked feet.

She shrugs. "However you're comfortable."

He toes them off by the door and turns to her in the lamplight. She's absolutely tiny without her heels, and he feels as if he's looming over her. She doesn't seem worried, though. She seems to like it.

He spies the cat from her photo, peering at him from behind the sofa with interest. He clicks at it, and it comes running. Only then does John realize the cat's right foreleg is missing.

Anna laughs. "Well, that's a first."

"No, we'll get on just fine, right mate?" He scratches the cat under its chin, and it promptly flops over, gazing at him lovingly as it kneads its lone front paw in the air.

Anna makes an exasperated sound. "I don't think he's ever that happy to see me. That's Castle, by the way."

She moves into the kitchen and starts setting out plates. He lingers in her doorway with his hands in his jean pockets. He's nervous. "Castle?"

"Castle."

He chuckles. "Are you going to tell me how that name came about?"

She only grins and quickly changes the subject. "I hope you like Italian. Marco's delivers, so I got a variety."

Her smile coaxes him into the kitchen, where he washes his hands, asking how he can help. She hands him a bread knife, and he sets about slicing the rest of the loaf from the morning. Together, they streak each slice with butter, and she pops them into the oven to brown. Besides that, there's not much else to do. Anna takes a sip of red wine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, would you like a glass?"

She's caught him staring at her lips, but it wasn't wine he was thinking on. He shakes his head. "I don't drink, actually." He braces himself for the usual questions, but she senses his unease, and they don't come.

"Tea, then?"

He visibly relaxes. "I'd love some."

Soon they're settled into the sofa cushions, sharing spaghetti bolognese and lasagna and John's homemade bread. She tells him about her small family and growing up in Yorkshire, about her parents, who have long since passed away, a little sister who lives in New York, and Gwen, her best mate from work. He tells her about life in the army and traveling, how he loves both mountains and oceans, but especially those places where they exist together. They talk about Castle's run-in with the neighborhood dog, how she'd taken him in right away after, and John tells her briefly about his own wound and early release from the army, the words falling surprisingly easily between them. As little as fifty years ago, he might've suffered the same fate as the cat, but he leaves that part out for now. He tells her that Castle is awfully lucky to have someone like her. She drifts a bit closer, and so does he.

Eventually, they decide to watch a film, and he takes their plates to the kitchen while she flips through the options. He doesn't even remember what she's selected, or for that matter whether she even pushes play, for as he relaxes back into the sofa, she slips easily under his arm. The overhead light is off, and as he pulls her close in the relative darkness, she puts her head on his shoulder. From there, it only seems right for him to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. Her eyes meet his, and they both lean in. This is very dangerous indeed. He can feel her breath mingling with his, the faintest brush of her lips as they part, her barely audible gasp of anticipation, and then a loud crash from the kitchen has them jumping apart.

Castle races in, giving a decidedly feline chirp, a telltale streak of tomato sauce obvious against the white of his chin as he stands outlined in the light of the lamp in the hall, and they collapse into laughter. She doesn't leave his arms, though, and as she smiles up at him, he gently traces the rise of her cheekbone with his thumb.

"Mr. Bates…"

"John," he corrects softly.

She blushes, looking down. "I don't want to give you my cold."

"Ah, but I had the homemade soup as well, so I'm all taken care of."

She squints at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're invulnerable, you mean? Because of the soup?"

"Absolutely. You're cured, aren't you?"

She laughs and shakes her head, settling back against his chest with a contented sigh.

He thinks of her in the morning, how she'd answered the door all sleep-rumpled and barefoot, how it took everything he had to tear his eyes away so that he could go to work. She's so soft and warm now, so perfectly fitted to him, and the low light is making him a bit fearless, it seems.

"I wanted to kiss you this morning," he says in a rough whisper, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

"I feel the same pretty much every morning," she confides.

"From the beginning?" he asks, surprised, sifting his fingers through her hair.

She hums her agreement, and his arms tighten around her, for he's always felt the same as well. She pushes back slightly, looking into his eyes once more. Her arms slip around his neck as he kisses her sweetly, reverently. She smiles against his lips, easing into his lap, and their mouths meet languidly as they learn one another.

She has creamy skin that glides soft under his lips and palms, eyes that flash and glitter in the dark. Her fine collarbones peek from the v-neck of her jumper, and he finds that they are particularly sensitive as he trails soft kisses across her neck and shoulders. She sighs as their lips meet again, and he lets his hands drift to the curve of her waist as she rises up to meet him. It's slow and searching, each movement drawn out and purposeful, and when she pulls at him, he willingly follows.

He settles gently beside her, stretching out against the back of the sofa as she curls into him, and he presses his lips to her temples, her nose, and the flushed skin of her cheeks. The telly has stopped flickering, gone silent and dark, and the room is bathed in deep shadows. The touches that pass between them are careful, comforting. It feels so good to hold her, like coming home, so familiar even though that's not possible.

Presently, a certain large black cat joins them, settling on the the back of the couch and purring loudly. John hugs Anna close then, burying his nose in her hair. Her arms encircle his chest, and they drift together for a long while, until their breathing falls in rhythm. Alchemy, he thinks as his eyes blink closed. It's so strange and so soon, but together they become something more, and he knows she feels it too.

* * *

* This fic is for awesomegreentie, who sent me a coffee house prompt.

* Special thanks, as always, to terriejane and giginutshell for beta services.

* Special thanks to froggattcoyles for selected double checking of British phrasing, though any mistakes are 100% mine.


	5. Dayspring

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 5: Dayspring**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

In the glancing moments between sleep and wakefulness, John first becomes aware of how utterly comfortable he feels, and he burrows further into the pillows. His alarm hasn't yet sounded, but he's so thoroughly rested, and it's that unfamiliar feeling of peaceful, sated sleep that produces an immediate accompanying worry that he's late for work. His eyes snap open.

He is absolutely shocked to discover that he's still sprawled on Anna's sofa, that she's tucked against him with her face buried in his chest, her left leg threaded through his. They haven't so much as moved in the night. Her hair shines golden in the light from the lamp in the hall, and he can see her outline in profile against the fabric of his oxford shirt, her fine eyelashes and the point of her high cheekbone, the curved bow of her lips.

No morning light is visible through the eastern window, but it's late; he can feel it. He gingerly moves his wrist into his field of vision. A quarter past five. He can still make it to work on time, but barely. He strokes Anna's cheek carefully, and she stirs against him, giving a little smile when she realizes he's there.

"We slept together?" she asks sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

He stares at her for a moment, and she huffs an embarrassed laugh when she realizes just how that sounds. She grins, he hugs her close, and the intoxicating energy they seem to effortlessly generate pulses thick in the air between them.

She dips her head into the space between his neck and shoulder, and he brushes the hair from her face. "What's the matter?"

"People generally date for a while before they wake up together, Mr. Bates."

He nods thoughtfully. "They make small talk in coffee houses, you mean?"

She smirks at him. "And they go out properly to dinner."

"Well, I suppose I'll have to make it up to you."

"Tonight, then?"

He pretends to think about it, and she gives his shoulder a smack. He's never smiled so much with anyone in his life. He should feel flustered, he thinks. This should be awkward, but it's not. Waking up with someone new should mean worrying about morning breath and how long he is supposed to stay, fretting over exactly where the burgeoning relationship is headed, but he couldn't care less about any of that at the moment. He feels only peace and the warm crackle of the indescribable connection between them.

She takes his hand, turning his wrist over and making a worried noise when she sees the time. Still, she doesn't move away.

He smooths her hair and presses his lips to her temple. "It's early yet."

She looks skeptical, but she snugs back down against his chest for a few moments anyway. He leans in slowly, tipping her chin to meet him, brushing her nose tentatively with his, seeking permission. She lets his stubbled cheek rasp against hers, and when she closes the space between them, he kisses her breathless in the quiet hour before twilight.

He strokes her waist, and his long fingers search out the satiny strip of skin that's bared just above the waistband of her jeans. She sighs into his mouth and tugs at his hair, letting her thigh creep up over his hip. Carefully, a millimetre at a time, his hands dip under the hem of her jumper and up the curve of her back. When they come up for air, he rests his forehead against hers, holding his eyes shut for a moment.

Of course, today has to be his day to open the store. Otherwise, he'd have a whole extra hour, time enough to let fervent whispers and searching touches light a fire between them. On the other hand, he knows precisely where this is headed, can imagine exactly what would happen if they were allowed to continue to linger here together without any interfering responsibilities, and it's much too soon for all that.

Isn't it?

"Don't be late," she whispers, and he's not immediately sure whether she means for work or dinner.

He exhales roughly and dutifully separates himself from her, trying to be sensible, kissing her cheek before rising and wandering off down the hallway to find the loo. He runs the tap and splashes cold water onto his face, regarding himself in the mirror. The man reflected back to him is sleepy-eyed and smiling. He could definitely get used to this.

When he makes his way back out into the kitchen, Anna has a travel mug of earl grey waiting for him. The lid from last night's takeout container of lasagna is upside down on the floor, and tomato sauce is splatter-painted onto the fronts of the cabinets. He'd forgotten all about the cat's misadventure until this moment, and one look at her confirms that she had as well.

"No wonder Castle has been making himself scarce this morning," he observes.

Anna shrugs and laughs and practically shoves John through the door. He's in a bit of a daze as he makes the short walk to his flat for a shower, and he wears a smile even as the frosty December air greets him. It doesn't wane all day.

* * *

Anna drops the hoover and reaches the intercom at the third jarring alert, slightly out of breath from running to the door. She's been tidying her bedroom, though she does not readily acknowledge why. It's Gwen at the front door, of course.

"You have a key, you know," Anna says into the speaker without double checking.

"I prefer to be announced upon arrival."

Anna sighs and buzzes Gwen through, watching with a smile as she appears at the top of the stairs.

"I'll use it next time," she says.

"So you say every time."

Gwen follows Anna in through the door and chucks her work satchel onto the sofa from habit. She rummages around in it for a moment, eventually producing a brightly wrapped gift bag, which she extends to Anna with a meaningful grin. "To make amends," she explains mischievously.

Anna eyes her friend with suspicion. "You've brought me a giant box of condoms, haven't you?"

Gwen only shrugs innocently. "You'll have to open it to find out."

Anna smiles and rolls her eyes, taking the gift and moving the gaudy bow aside. The bag is filled to the brim with every shape, style, and color of prophylaxis imaginable.

"Lovely."

"I'm confident you'll need every last one."

Anna sifts through the bag and comes up with both glow-in-the-dark and flavored varieties, but she raises an eyebrow at the extra large options, the flashy metallic wrappers crinkling between her fingers.

"Here's hoping?" Gwen snickers gleefully. "We old married ladies have to live vicariously through someone."

Anna laughs aloud and hugs her friend. "Thank you," she says seriously. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"That's what I'm here for."

Soon, Gwen is settled into the bedside chair, munching thoughtfully on a chocolate biscuit. If she notices the unusually pristine condition of the bedroom, she does not mention it, and for that Anna is endlessly grateful. Gwen always knows just where to draw the line.

"So when do I get to see this dashing barista of yours?"

"It's not like you don't know where he works." Anna pops her head out of the closet for a moment. "And I don't know that he's my barista."

"Don't you?"

She quickly ducks back through the door to hide her blush. Even thinking the words makes her a little unsteady. She lets her fingertips linger over the hollow of her throat, and she remembers his lips trailing there, dipping between her collarbones as her head lolled back. She has told Gwen about yesterday's takeout dinner, but not about spending the night on the sofa, and that's a bit of a surprise. It's just all too new, and she has an inexplicable desire to keep this private, to hold the truth of it close for a little while longer. It's delicate and rare, as yet too extraordinary to name.

She pulls on an azure jumper - the one she wore last week, when she curled into the shop's fireside chair with her coffee and book and caught him staring. She steps out of the closet with an expectant face.

Gwen smiles over the rim of her teacup. "Perfect."

* * *

He's at her door by a quarter to seven as promised, bundled into his wool coat, the collar still turned up against the snow outside. Her flat feels so warm and inviting, and she's glowing, outlined in the soft light of the doorway, her beautiful hair falling in waves about her shoulders. She's wearing that distracting color again, just a shade darker than her ocean eyes, and he can't stop staring.

"Hello," he breathes, the creases around his eyes deepening with his smile.

"I'll just be two minutes," she says.

He blinks slowly and nods, but doesn't say that he'd wait a lifetime, though that's what he suspects already. He shrugs out of his coat and moves to hang it on the rack by the door as she rises on tiptoe to brush her lips against his cheek. The slide of her fingers against the back of his neck makes his hair stand on end, and there's just something about the way their eyes meet in the lamplight that proves his undoing. He kisses her then, pulling her close and crushing his mouth to hers right there in the doorway. She responds in kind, holding tight to fistfuls of his shirt, and he leans against the door jamb for balance. Finally, she tugs him inside. He kicks the door closed, and they're lost in a frenzy of activity as his coat hits the floor. Suddenly he finds that this thing between them is not only slow and carefully sensual, but also electric, as quick and hot as a new burst of flame.

They never make it to dinner. Instead, they stumble down the hall together. Their shoes land somewhere near the little kitchen. She pulls him along by the open ends of his dress shirt as he fumbles with the buttons at his wrists, and he accidentally backs her into the hall table, tipping a vase to the floor. Thankfully, it lands softly. They, on the other hand, do not. The bedroom chair's leg gives as they collapse onto the cushions, and she laughs heartily.

"I'll fix it," he murmurs against her neck. He gets the distinct impression that she couldn't care less.

Her knees settle on either side of his thighs as she moves onto his lap. His hands fit to the flare of her hips, and she pushes his shirt off over his shoulders with what appears to be, in his estimation, a surprisingly satisfied smirk, as if she likes what she sees - as if she's quite pleased with herself. God, he hopes so. Her small hands spread across his chest, and he groans.

This is escalating quickly, he thinks dreamily, watching her sigh and squirm as his palms slide flat across her navel. She reaches for his belt buckle, and he leans forward so that his lips brush her ear. He means to press an important question there, but he can't quite form the necessary words, distracted as he is by her roaming hands. He doesn't have to worry, though. Thankfully, she has it taken care of. She whispers roughly that she has protection, just in case, then dips her head with a smile. He marvels at the hot rush of desire that blooms tight in his chest as he realizes she's thought about him this way, and he strokes her cheek, tipping her chin so that he can see her eyes.

"Actually, so do I," he admits, swallowing hard. "Just in case."

They grin at one another before their lips meet again, and his hands drift further under her jumper, running up the arch of her back, fingerprinting her spine. She makes a frustrated noise and tugs the sweater off over her head, sighing in the low light of the bedroom. He smiles and slides his thick fingers under the straps at her shoulders.

He should tell her she's beautiful, but the words won't leave him. Truthfully, he's dreamed of this since he first caught sight of her in the coffee line, and he's utterly in awe that this is really happening. She reaches back to release the clasp of her bra, and he growls as the silky fabric gives.

Anna has plump, pert breasts, perfectly fitted to her petite frame, and pale pink nipples that match the blush of her cheeks. He kisses her lips softly, caressing her shoulder blades, letting his fingertips trail along her sides, until she finally takes his hands in hers and moves them around to cup the soft weight, her nipples peaking under his touch. She hums and wets her lips, and he tries to remember how to breathe.

The carefully-made bed is three paces away, fresh and inviting. He wants to see the duvet tangled at the foot, to rumple the sheets and leave her gasping with pleasure. The way her hips begin to roll subtly as he takes a nipple into his mouth gives him a fair idea that she would approve of this plan. His lips move to her neck, and as she hugs him close, he rises carefully with her slight weight held fast against him. She gives a surprised little squeak, tightening her grip on his shoulders. When he settles her gingerly onto the mattress, she pulls him with her.

Soon, he's kissing his way down the slope of her back as she sighs into her pillow, and she's melting under his touch, gripping the freshly laundered sheets as he tries to make her come out of herself in her orderly bed with the fingers of their right hands laced together and their jeans still on. He carefully untangles their hands long enough to work her fly open, and he teases her, his fingertips flirting with hem of her panties until she presses her bottom back against him. Then he's turning her, working her pants over her hips as she smiles saucily at him. He nips the tender flesh below her navel before dipping lower. Her knickers join the pile of clothing on the floor, and he settles between her legs as she squirms against him.

His name leaves her lips as he moves to taste her, and the pleading note in her voice drives him perilously close to the edge. He redoubles his efforts, knowing there's no way in hell he'll be able to last very long once she begins to touch him in earnest, and he wants so badly to make this good for her. He guesses correctly that it's been a long time for them both. She tugs at his hair, and he answers with a groan, pulling her thighs up over his shoulders and lapping at her until she cries out and goes limp beneath him.

He smiles giddily, resting his forehead against the slope of her abdomen, and she pets him as she comes back down. Finally, he finds the words he's been looking for all evening, and he whispers them between kisses as he moves back up her trembling body.

"You. Are. Exquisite."

She giggles and buries her face in his neck. He presses his nose to her hair, breathing in, and as he searches out her lips, her small fingers slide inside the fly of his boxer shorts. After that, there's nothing but the steady thrum of blood rushing through his veins, and he doesn't think for a long while.

She pushes at his chest, maneuvering him so that he's sitting back against the headboard, then she tugs at the rest of his clothing until there's nothing at all left between them. His fingers shake as he retrieves one of the little packets from her nightstand. He worries for just a moment, but she only smiles sweetly and moves to help him, biting her lip as she opens the distinctive gold wrapper.

He draws her near, and their lips meet as she moves into his embrace. He palms her shoulders and lets his hands slide over the creamy skin of her back, down to squeeze her buttocks. They both sigh as she sinks down onto him, and he's more than happy to let her select the right rhythm, stroking up in counterpoint with her. He draws his hands over her hips, across the flat of her belly and up to cup her face as she moves with him. She groans, tossing her hair, her eyes clamped shut in concentration. Seeing her this way leaves him panting, grasping desperately for the thin thread of his control.

Her breasts bob with their movements, and he leans forward to suckle her, remembering the look in her eyes when he did so earlier. Luckily, it seems to be just what she needs.

"John," she sighs, and he discovers he'd like to spend the rest of time finding new ways to make her say his name.

She shudders and gasps, digging her fingernails into his shoulders with her head tipped back, and she smiles when she comes. He follows her with a ragged moan, and they rest, holding tight to one another, their harsh breathing the only discernible noise.

Slowly, he realizes she's shaking against him. He sits up, concerned, but she's only giggling. He breaks into a relieved smile, dragging his fingers over the ticklish spot behind her knee with purpose, and her giggles turn to gasping, joyful laughter. He sighs happily and hugs her close before rising and weaving unsteadily to the loo.

When he returns, she's snugged down against her pillow, and she watches his nude form with frank interest as he approaches the bed and turns off the lamp. He leans over to kiss her before joining her under the covers, and he's never slept on this side of the bed before, but with her it feels perfect. He moves onto his back, fitting her tight against his chest, curling his left arm around her waist and tucking her head under his chin. She doesn't have to ask if he'll stay, and he doesn't need to question whether she wishes it.

His voice leaves him in a low, thick rumble. "This was quite a wonderful surprise."

She presses her lips to his collarbone. "Maybe I can find some other ways to surprise you later then, Mr. Bates."

His fingertips drift into the furrow between her breasts. "You naughty girl," he whispers as he rolls her, kissing her hotly in the dark as snow continues to fall beyond the windowpanes.

* * *

* For awesomegreentie.

* Special thanks to terriejane, giginutshell, and froggattcoyles for beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* giginutshell challenged me to write an AU fic in which Anna and Bates have sex/ Banarotica is produced by Chapter 5, rather than leaving readers on-edge for forever. You have her to thank for this.

* This chapter is dedicated to katamarann, who apparently shares my suspicion with regard to… ahem… sizing considerations. Bates definitely needs the ones in the gaudy gold wrapper, judging by that candid photo from a few months back. ;) If you're not reading _Adventures in Solitude_ , you should be!

* I had a crazy week and kept you waiting longer than I should've for this chapter, so I hope it was worth the wait! I could've been a naughty writer and cut it in half, but I didn't. And I'm posting it on a Saturday night just for you, so I hope someone out there is reading. You're welcome.


	6. Distraction

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 6: Distraction**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

It has been a distressingly long time since Anna has awoken to the comforting bulk of a man pressed tightly against her back, but his presence today is unmistakable. He trails lazy kisses across her shoulders, his stubble scraping deliciously against the back of her neck, and she smiles into her pillow without opening her eyes. He gives a little grunt, nuzzling her, pressing his nose behind her ear. She imagines his eyes crinkling with his own smile as he senses that she is indeed awake.

She's thinking of the previous evening, a hot whirlwind of colour and sensation, movements both fervent and careful, and the pleasing stoutness of his body. John has a sturdy chest, thick thighs and calves, and a fading surgical scar above his right knee that inspired her to hold onto him a bit tighter in the night, fiercely proud of him already. He'd watched her so intently as they came together once more, his pupils onyx as he moved over her, flashing in the dark. Their second joining was slow, purposeful and binding, and he'd shuddered as she wrapped her legs around him, marking his shoulder with her teeth. Afterward, hunger finally coaxed them from the bed, and they shared leftovers and surprisingly easy conversation before lingering in the heat of the shower spray together. She'd traced the purplish mark on his collar bone with her fingertip and given him a decidedly satisfied smile.

Now, his large hands begin to wander gently, reclaiming her waist, spreading across her hips and thighs. She gives a contented sigh, a bit surprised when she finds herself pushing back against him with a new surge of interest. Her overly-ordered life has needed a little shaking up, and what a way to do it. This has got to be some kind of a personal record.

She lets her eyes drift open, and as her vision adjusts, she's met with the sight of the lopsided bedside chair. His dress shirt is still crumpled into the cushions, and she grins at the memory. Pure white sunlight glows against the frosted windowpanes, and she realizes that it must've snowed all night, that it's already mid-morning, and they've enjoyed quite a lie in. Thank God for Saturdays.

She turns and moves into his embrace, humming at the warm press of his skin against hers. The weather outside might be poor, but inside her small flat, they're bundled in cozy blankets, basking in the cool lustre of the winter morning. They grin, and he nuzzles her neck as she hugs him close. Each time their lips meet, it's both new and comforting. John is real and warm and large, and he tugs her slightly on top of him, tangling his fingers in her hair. She's so distracted by his roaming hands that she doesn't notice the quiet click of the deadbolt or Castle's irritable chirp from the hall.

"Anna, let's go! I stopped for coffee, but I didn't see your fit barista-"

Gwen's voice has come as an absolute shock, and they all stare at one another in dumbfounded silence for a moment as she stands stock-still in the bedroom doorway, holding two styrofoam coffee cups, her mouth agape. Thankfully, she comes to her senses quickly and leaps back out into the hall.

"Bloody hell! I'm so sorry, I thought… Never mind. I was never here. Carry on!" Gwen scurries noisily out the way she came. "This sort of thing is precisely why I didn't want to use the key!" she complains before the flat's door closes with a thud, and her delighted cackle echoes through the exterior hall.

Anna sinks down beside John and tugs the duvet up over her head, groaning with embarrassment as he laughs heartily beside her.

"I gather that's Gwen," he says, and she can hear his smile.

Anna sighs. "We were supposed to wrap up Christmas shopping, but clearly I forgot."

Her voice is muffled by the blanket, and he gently tugs at the bedding until he can see her face. His hair flops endearingly across the right side of his brow as he props up on his elbow beside her.

"Well, you did say that your friend has notoriously bad timing."

She can't help but pet him, and he leans into her touch. "I must've been distracted," she admits. "I don't usually have this sort of company."

"I'm honoured." His striking green eyes are full of merriment, and he brushes her hair from her temple with a mischievous smile. "So, who's the lucky barista she mentioned?"

Anna blushes and presses her fingers to her forehead, but he gently pulls her hand away.

"He's a lucky bloke if you fancy him."

"Well, I fancied him from the start." She raises an eyebrow, running her hands over his shoulders. "But I wasn't sure if he was keen on me."

"Oh, I'd say he's keen," he whispers, kissing her softly. "I'd say he's very keen indeed."

He kicks the covers off, lowering his lips to her neck. She's already soft and slick from his kisses, and presently yet another gold wrapper flutters to the floor as they gasp and smile together.

* * *

Gwen sinks into the restaurant chair without so much as a hello and fixes Anna with an amused stare. "You're shagging the hot barista, and you didn't tell me?"

"No! Well, I mean, yes, but I wasn't going to keep it secret. Not exactly." Anna laughs and shakes her head. "I am truly sorry about this morning."

"Are you kidding? I was so excited for you that I needed a ciggy after."

"You didn't."

Gwen rolls her eyes. "No, but I did have both of our coffees so that I could get through the morning of shopping before Marc and the wee one had the opportunity get into too much trouble - set fire to our flat, perhaps? Or worse, try to bake something."

Anna gives a thoughtful nod. "The fire and baking would likely go hand-in-hand. You love them, though."

Gwen gives her best impression of a world-weary sigh. "Yes, I suppose I do. The beggars. So… where is the barista tonight?"

" _John_ is closing the shop for the evening."

"And is he as good as he looks?"

Anna smiles and blushes hotly. "Gwen…"

"Alright, alright. We won't talk about it yet." Gwen pretends to be engrossed in reading the menu. "But don't think I didn't notice that the bedroom chair was broken."

Anna only sips her tea and smiles.

* * *

* For awesomegreentie.

* Special thanks to terriejane, giginutshell, froggattcoyles, and downtonluvr for beta. Any mistakes are my own.

* giginutshell got to pick Gwen's husband's name.


	7. Lost

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 7: Lost**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

John pulls his coat closed tightly, folding his arms over his chest as he sloshes along the pavement through the wet December chill. The streetlamps have long been illuminated, each orb casting light in a yellow haze of mist. The snowmelt laps at his heels as he goes, and he feels the cold settling deep into his bones, a phantom ache zinging over his right kneecap and blossoming up along his thigh. He's exhausted, in more ways than one. Earlier, he'd been forced to exchange the bliss of her bed for the rigours of a Saturday evening alone at the coffee house, and he'd lingered perhaps a touch too long in her doorway before trudging out into the ice and snow. He has been working double shifts since Thomas left him in the lurch. And without much sleep, he thinks with the ghost of a smile.

He knows from intimate experience that her flat is warm and softly lit, far more comfortable than his own, and he finds he's drawn there before he has much of a chance to consider how he might be received, whether it's too much too quickly. He's distracted, though, lost in the memory of her ocean eyes. The notion that she might be just as eager to see him again so soon proves unbearably tempting.

It's not until he's almost to her front door that he experiences a flicker of worry that he might be unwelcome, that he might be intruding, and the thought pulls him up short. The hurts of years past are not easily shaken off. He turns, facing the street, suddenly shy, weighing his options, calculating the emotional risk from habit and hastily resigning himself to return to his sparse flat alone. He takes a step forward then pauses, lingering on the corner. He huffs out a frosty breath and bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment.

Life is short. He's spent years in fear of living it. He thinks of her hair spilling across his shoulders in the pale morning light, laughing with her after Gwen's hasty departure, the look in her eyes as he finally separated himself from her and moved reluctantly across the threshold, back to his ordinary life. She's told him she fancies him, has shown him quite plainly - and more than once at that. What is he waiting for? He feels the tendons in his bad leg stretch and engage as he tenses, breathing deeply, tamping down his worry and moving with purpose toward her door once more. He's pulling his mobile from his pocket, rounding the corner and bringing up her name, when he collides with her fully on the narrow walkway.

She recovers first and gives a gasping laugh, retrieving his mobile from a puddle of melting snow and drying it with her scarf. It doesn't seem too much worse for wear. Her strange little half smile makes him wonder if she's seen her name on the screen, but thankfully she doesn't tease him about it just yet. He's too startled in this moment to realize that she has passed her own front door and made the turn onto High Street because she was hoping to meet him, that she's been moving through the night toward him as well. This will occur to him only later, as he runs his hands through her hair and feels her soft breath evening out against his chest in the dark.

"Anna..." he breathes, unsure of what else to say.

She responds with a barely perceptible shiver of anticipation as the word lingers in the space between them. He realizes suddenly that he's spoken with quite a particular timbre, rough and low, a tone newly familiar yet unmistakable. He's given himself and his intentions away, and all he's said is her name.

Moments pass. He can't be moved to break her gaze. Now the night that was grey and dreary becomes crisp and glittering, bright with snow. She turns to him, letting her gloved fingers slide beneath the lapels of his heavy wool coat. He no longer feels the cold, and her hand fits itself easily into his. They stand silhouetted for a moment in the glinting fog, beneath a crooked streetlamp, until her whisper raises the fine hair at the back of his neck. His response to her is conditioned already as well.

"Take me home, Mr. Bates."

It's less than fifty paces to her building. He barely remembers ascending the small flight of stairs inside. He presses in close behind her in the hall, breath stirring the hair at the crown of her head as she fumbles with her keys. She removes her gloves, tries again. Her hands are shaking, and he hasn't even kissed her yet.

He waits with bated breath, his long fingers splayed on either side of the door jamb. He hopes he might always grace her doorstep this way, standing balanced on the edge of control with her. When the lock clicks and rolls, she gives a happy little sigh and reaches up to grab his hand, pulling him inside. She throws the deadbolt, and they're alone.

He helps her off with her coat, then hangs his in turn. She steps out of her heels and faces him in the low light of the hallway lamp. There's no pretence. It's well past dinnertime, and they both know exactly why he's here. She has an awed, wild gleam in her eyes as he takes her firmly by the hips and backs her carefully against the door. Her lips part from the thrill of it. She looks as if she wants to lose herself in things both dark and familiar.

He shudders as she traces the deepening lines around his eyes, revelling in the feel of it, of being touched by someone who so obviously wants him. He stoops so that his forehead meets hers, and she eases the knot from his tie. He can feel the faint puff of every breath she takes against his lips as she pulls the buttons of his dress shirt in succession. He leans in, senses rather than sees her smile, and closes the millimetres between them with purpose.

The skin at the small of her back is downy and soft. When his lips glided there earlier, she writhed in the sheets. She sighs when his fingers drift under her top and up the curve of her spine. He becomes aware that he's towering over her, of the sheer size of his shoulders compared to her small hands, that he has her pressed solidly between the bulk of his chest and the door. She's fierce, though, her responses to him strong and unwavering. She rises on tiptoe to meet him as his shirt flutters to the floor.

Anna truly seems to love the feel of him, and oh, how he loves to be touched. She traces his collarbones, grips his forearms, hums appreciatively as his lips move across her neck, and lets her hands drift down past his navel. His belt buckle clinks open. His fingers draw across the backs of her thighs. He imagines running his hands under her skirt and hitching her up right here against the wall, of a scramble to gain purchase, of pushing into her as she muffles her cries into his neck. He's groaning in her ear, gathering her to him, his fragile grasp of control slipping free, when a loud, plaintive meow sounds from the kitchen, and Anna breaks their kiss in a fit of giggles. He leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door and tries to catch his breath.

He wants to indulge her, to truly show her what he's capable of. Instead, he's fairly certain they were just about to go hard and fast against the door with her skirt hiked up and her blouse still neatly buttoned. And while that's certainly an idea that merits revisiting, that's not what tonight is about. He has taken her home; now he needs to take her to bed.

She pushes gently at his shoulder and meets his eyes sheepishly. "Castle wants feeding, I'm afraid." They laugh together, and she presses her nose to his cheek. "But," she adds carefully, "I very much want you to stay."

He smiles and nods, pressing his lips gently to hers before easing back. At least his trousers are still on properly. He hopes that might make it seem like he has shown some modicum of restraint when she thinks on it later. He adds this interruption to the growing list of things that should be terribly awkward, but instead are comfortable with her. There's no question that he'll stay.

He retrieves his shirt, then leaves his shoes by the door. She moves about the kitchen, opening a low cupboard, and Castle chirps as food rattles into his bowl. Anna washes her hands and falls into her evening routine, setting the timer on the coffee maker as he leans against the kitchen counter, shaking his head with a smile. She shrugs and grins and takes his offered hand.

The bedroom chair is no longer askew, and he chuckles when he sees that it's been propped up with a thick stack of magazines. He folds his shirt neatly over the back.

"I do believe you told me you would repair that." She arches an eyebrow as he moves closer.

"Maybe there's some other way I can make it up to you."

She squints up at him affectionately. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Come here." He tugs her against his chest in the lamplight.

He traces her cheekbones with the backs of his fingers, and she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. The buttons of her top are pearlescent. They each slip through their holes and give with a satisfying pop. Her creamy skin glows in the lamplight. She shrugs out of her blouse, and it joins his shirt in the bedside chair.

He works his hands into her hair, letting his fingertips linger on the soft skin behind her ears before moving lower, across the back of her neck and down each arm. He turns her, fingerprints her shoulder blades, brushes her beautiful hair aside and runs his lips along the nape of her neck until her head lolls forward. He marvels at the perfect fit of his hands on her waist, indenting the supple flesh, then spreads his fingers flat across her navel. His hands run low on her belly, and he searches out the hidden zipper in the seam at her hip. The fabric slips away easily. She lets it fall as she moves to face him once more.

He caresses her sides and back, squeezes her hips, takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. Her breath hitches as he traces the silky fabric concealing her breasts. He hooks a finger under a delicate strap and slides it over her left shoulder. Her bra is black and cut low, and he wonders if she selected the scrap of silk and lace earlier with just this sort of thing in mind, if she chose it for him. She watches him intently, clearly pleased by his fascination, and he realizes that she did. She draws her hands across her belly and up to loose the dainty clasp between her breasts. Her little rosebud nipples peak at his touch. She looks him in the eye as her fingers move to his fly, and his mouth goes dry.

He looks down for a moment, a bit overcome by the intensity of the dizzying want telegraphing between them until her hand finds his. He moves it up to cup his cheek, turning his face to meet her. He feels the rough scrape of it deep in his chest, his skin like sandpaper under her palm, and her expression shifts to something fiery and raw that he cannot name, as if she's remembering the distinct rasp of his cheek against far more intimate places. He wonders just which memory she's touched on, whether she thinks of him this way when she's alone. He realizes he's not been clean-shaven for her yet and resolves to remedy that straight away. He wants to shower and groom and put on his best suit for her, to set a place and light candles, to take her properly to dinner. He will, and soon, but for now, he kisses her deeply as her arms wind around his neck.

They fall into bed together. Until yesterday, he'd never really appreciated the truth of that expression. He tells her this, and she laughs breathlessly against his shoulder. There's a last minute fumble through the contents of a brightly coloured bag in the top drawer of her nightstand, and soon, she's sighing in his ear, begging him not to stop in the sort of feverish whisper that makes him surge into her with a growl. He puts his head down against her shoulder and hitches her leg up over his hip. She smells of sweat and sex and, faintly, of the spice of his morning aftershave. She clutches at his shoulders, and he desperately hopes she's close because every scrape of her fingernails across his back is pushing him further and further toward the precipice.

Her small hand fits itself to his cheek, and he turns his head to kiss her. When her fingers tangle with his, he slides their joined hands down to move between them so that she might show him the best way to please her. She buries her face in his neck with a whimper as their rhythm picks up, wraps her legs around him fully at his answering murmur, and tilts her hips up to meet him when she begins to fall over the edge. The muscles in his arms strain with his effort until she finally goes breathless and rigid, her lips parting in a silent cry, and he smiles as she sighs his name. _God, yes._ He moves into her roughly, once, twice more and groans with his release. She soothes her hands across his back as he kisses her sweetly, and in that moment he fully accepts that he's completely lost in her already.

* * *

* For awesomegreentie.

* Special thanks to giginutshell for requesting more... detailed lovemaking. :)

* And thank you to my beta team: terriejane, giginutshell, and froggattcoyles.


	8. Firelight

**Grounded**

 **Chapter 8: Firelight**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

Sunday dawns bright and fresh, with a cloudless, cold-blue winter sky. Anna stretches luxuriously beneath the warm blankets as John snores softly against her pillow. She notes with satisfaction the tingle of her still-swollen lips, the faint ache low in her belly. She's endlessly happy that he found his way home with her yet again, that they seem to be in danger of making this a habit. Tomorrow her real life will intrude once more, and she wonders what will happen then. Will he give her a secret smile as she comes through the coffee shop door? Will they have only recently parted?

John has long eyelashes and a pleasing scruff of stubble across his cheeks and chin. His hands are large and warm, with elegant fingers that glide perfectly across her bare skin in the dark. She's thinking of all the pleasing ways she could wake him when her mobile blares from somewhere down the hall. Only bad news and work calls come this early, she knows. She gives a little sigh as she slips from the bed.

The floor is a maze of discarded clothing which she must navigate carefully. His shirt is still neatly draped over the back of the chair, and she snags it as she weaves her way past, cursing softly as she nearly trips over her skirt in the doorway.

The ringing has stopped and started again by the time she locates her mobile, and her brows furrow when she sees that it's Mary. She answers as pleasantly as possible, but the voice that greets her is not at all happy. Anna winces, assures Mary she'll come in to the office right away, and ends the call with a groan.

Only coffee can salvage the situation, and she's frowning into her favorite mug when he stumbles into the kitchen in his boxers and not much else. He looks just a bit startled, presumably from the sight of her seated at the kitchen counter wearing only his button-front Oxford, but he makes no comment just yet. He rumples his hair, and she can't help but smile then. His sleepy eyes grin back at her.

"Hello," he says, rather steadily considering what they were doing when they last spoke - quite a different sort of conversation indeed. He pads across the kitchen tile to kiss her sweetly, then leans against the small island for a moment with his arms folded across his chest. "Bad news?"

She sighs. "I've been assigned to help Mary with a presentation at a conference, and it's all very last-minute."

"Oh?"

"I need to rush into the office now, actually. I've no idea how long I'll be, and then we're off to London first thing tomorrow."

He gives an understanding nod, with more than a hint of disappointment. "I suppose your holiday is officially over, then?"

"Looks that way." She meets his eyes over the rim of her cup. "But I had quite the relaxing vacation."

He smiles at that. "Did you indeed?"

She stands, coffee cup in hand, and rises on tiptoe to kiss him. She can feel his eyes following her as she moves down the hall.

He chuckles. "If I'm to leave, I'll need my shirt, you know?"

She pauses in the bedroom doorway, taking a sip from her mug and briefly considering the time. "You'll have to come here and take it."

She doesn't have to tell him twice. Soon, she's sighing into his shoulder with the chill of the tile against her back and the heat of the shower spray falling all around. And just a bit later, when they are carefully polished and put together, they pause beneath the awning outside.

"Dinner tonight, then?" He still asks a bit uncertainly, as if she might say no.

"That would be lovely."

She straightens his collar, he kisses her softly, and they both smile as they go their separate ways for the day. But of course, nothing goes to plan. John is called upon to work the evening in William's stead. Anna gets snagged up in a conference call, remembers too late that both of her best suits are still at the cleaners, and finally leaves the office well past sundown. An unexpected band of thick snowfall has kept the pavement relatively empty of foot traffic despite the proximity to the holiday, but High Street almost glows with warmth. John is there, holding the door as the few remaining customers make their way out into the evening chill. He looks tired behind his smile, but his eyes warm when he sees her. It makes all the difference.

"Today has not gone as I'd hoped," she says apologetically.

"And here I thought we might finally make that dinner I've promised you."

She takes his hand, turning his wrist over and squinting at his watch. "We'll have to settle for another time, I'm afraid."

"Ah…" He flashes a mischievous grin. "Could I take you out for coffee, then?"

She laughs. "That sounds perfect."

He makes a big show of sweeping his arm to usher her inside the shop. "I know just the place."

* * *

John snugs Anna tight to his chest and presses his lips to her temple as the fire glows warm on the stone hearth. A fresh fir wreath hangs above the mantle, candles light each windowsill, and the coffee house smells of fresh gingerbread and woodsmoke. Outside, the storefronts of High Street are steeped in new snow.

He's in his shirtsleeves with his tie hanging loose, and she's been playing with his collar in the most distracting fashion. She settles in close against him and sips from their shared mug of cocoa. He huffs a contented sigh as she fits the flat of her palm to his cheek for a moment. When he closes his eyes, he tries to believe he's not dreamt the past week.

Tomorrow, her work will take her far away from him for some days, and her absence will leave him aimless and filled with longing, homesick for someone who doesn't quite belong to him yet. He presses his nose to her hair and breathes in. The firelight paints her collarbones in rolling golden shadows.

"What will I do while you're away?" He's whispered the words against her temple without stopping to remind himself that it's only really been a few days.

She raises an eyebrow. "You will miss me, then?"

He tries not to smile, but he fails miserably. "Anna, you are my most favourite distraction." He knows he's said the words with warmth and feeling, that he's far more serious than he'd meant to let on, and he finds he doesn't care.

Anna flushes and takes a sip of cocoa. "What will you do, then?"

"Work on the shop, I suppose. The front door needs painting, if we ever have a day dry enough for it." He brushes the hair from her forehead. "And the sign on the window could use reworking."

She eyes the peeling vinyl letters with a smirk. "What will it say?"

"And here I thought you might help me with that bit." He smiles up at her. "Maybe _coffee, fresh pastries, open hearth_?"

She giggles and sips their cocoa. "You're leaving out the best part."

"Which is?"

"Hot barista."

He stares at her for a beat and breaks into a smile. "I was hoping you might not want to advertise that part."

"Oh, I don't." She cups his cheek and kisses him lightly in the firelight. "I don't."

He grins and carefully moves their shared mug to the safety of the table, then pulls her close as the fire cracks and pops and a light snow continues to fall.

Outside, a small, grey-haired woman pauses at the shop window on her way home from High Street Chapel's evening service. The dancing firelight has caught her eye, but it's the unexpected tableau beyond the glass that keeps her lingering for just a moment. The tall barista must fancy his lovely customer after all. Margaret Bates smiles and sighs happily before walking on.

* * *

* For awesomegreentie, who also prompted the window lettering exchange.

* Beta thanks to giginutshell and terriejane.


	9. Monday

**Grounded**

 **Chapter Nine: Monday**

by Lynn Saunders

* * *

John and Anna walk in step along High Street, through the December chill near dawn, with her hand tucked neatly into his. The moon is still risen, illuminating a ringed swath of grey clouds with an ethereal blue glow. The lamppost wreaths are dipped in frost, and the berries and bows glisten. He has the larger of her two bags slung across his back. She is bundled into her wool coat, hunching her shoulders so that only her eyes are visible above the red of her scarf. Theirs are the first footprints to mark the morning snow.

In only a few hours, she will fly away from him. Everything is so new, yet so familiar so soon. He already can't wait to give her a secret smile from behind the coffee house counter upon her return, to feel his eyes light up as the shop doors jangle her arrival each morning after, knowing they have only recently parted. She huffs out a frosty breath, as if steeling herself to face the day. He squeezes her hand, and she smiles up at him.

Last night he'd fallen into her bed again, and this morning found him warm and happy, marvelling at the way she fits against him - her petite frame, surprisingly thick hips and trim waist all cut perfectly to complement his stoutness. His hands glided over her skin so easily in the dark, across her shoulders, down the curve of her spine to the rise of her buttocks and back again. He wanted to etch her into his memory. When she stirred against him, he'd hugged her close, rolling them so that she was draped across his chest before tangling his hands in her hair and kissing her fully awake an hour early. She didn't seem to mind in the least.

He holds tight to her hand, tugging her around the corner to the shop's rear door. His key sticks in the cold lock for a moment, and he pumps the handle gently until it creaks open. The warm memories of the evening before greet him even before the familiar smell of coffee and sweets. They shuffle inside and stow her bags by the door. He settles her onto his mother's favourite stool, and she watches intently as he sets about his morning routine. The kitchen is fresh and clean, carefully tended as always. He needs only grind the beans before starting a pot of coffee. A long broom is affixed to a bracket beside the door, and he sweeps snow from the back and front stoops in turn. He lights a small fire in the front room, then nestles a steaming cup into her chilly hands. She sighs and stretches happily.

Soon the deliveryman calls, and John inspects the parcels with a careful eye. He has pulled a pair of readers from his shirt pocket and is reviewing the order receipt when he catches Anna staring.

"You will need to wear those more often." She sips her coffee with a smile.

"Sometimes I forget I need them at all," he replies, almost apologetically.

"I fancy them."

"Oh yes?" He comes to stand before her. The mug passes between them easily. The brew is dark and velvety on his tongue.

She rises, gazing up at him with her small hands on his chest. "Definitely, yes."

She slips inside the split edges of his coat, and he moves the mug to the safety of the counter before wrapping her in his arms. She gives a contented hum. For a precious moment there's nothing but the sound of her soft breathing and the faint pop and crack of the fire. The shop is calm and still, and he thinks of the evening before, of her skin painted golden in the firelight. He stoops to press his lips to her forehead just as a horn sounds from the street, intruding.

"That'll be the car," she sighs.

He buries his nose in her hair. "Only a week?"

Her arms tighten around him. "Only a week."

He eases back and winds the loose ends of her scarf securely around her neck once more. She reaches up to straighten his tie, traces his jaw with her fingertips, and blinks up at him with her pale blue eyes. He wonders how he can feel such longing for her touch when he's only just come to know it. He can barely imagine the week ahead without her near.

Outside, the horn blares again.

She turns to pluck her bags from the corner, and he opens the door for her with a flourish. The driver hurries around to secure Anna's luggage. They have but a moment more, and John resolves to make it count. He wants her to long for him too, to be the one she daydreams about. He turns to her in the arch of the doorway, pulling her close.

"Now, Miss Smith…"

"Mr. Bates…" she teases, grinning up at him.

The sparkle in her eyes is so distracting that he loses his train of thought. He chuckles as he cradles her face in his hands, searching for the right words. Finally, he stoops to kiss her sweetly.

 _Don't forget about me in London,_ he thinks. "Keep warm," he says.

He pulls a paper-wrapped slice of gingerbread from his coat pocket and tucks it into hers. She smiles, clearly touched. The driver scrapes his boot heel on the curb and clears his throat pointedly.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I'll message you when I land."

"Message me any time."

She rises on tiptoe to kiss him once more, and then she is whisked away. He watches until the tail lights fade in the pre-dawn fog. He has put on a brave face, but he is lovesick already. He can't believe he didn't think of bringing mistletoe.

* * *

John pulls risen dough from the fridge and halves it on the floured countertop. He has just taken up the rolling pin when he hears the chime of the door and his Mum's familiar voice from the front of the shop.

"Oh, it's brass monkeys out!"

She hates the cold. He imagines her brushing snow from her shoulders and moving to stand before the fire with outstretched fingers. He pauses to put the kettle on as her voice drifts through the kitchen door.

"William, dear, how are you?"

John begins to roll out the first section of dough, listening with a smirk as William gently declines Margaret's offer of the phone number of 'that nice lass from the church bake sale.' She's nothing if not persistent.

"Well, alright then, but you let me know if you change your mind," she says with just a hint of disappointment.

William offers the fresh brew of the day, but she waves him off. "Oh, no coffee for me, dear. I'd be up all night. I'll pop to the back and see about my Johnny. I can hear the click of the rolling pin from here."

John feels rather than sees her enter. "Hi mum," he says without looking up. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"I do indeed, but it can wait a bit." The kettle whistles, and she carefully moves it from the burner. "I need to make sure you don't make a mess of these sticky buns." She winks at him, her eyes full of mirth.

He shakes his head with a smile as she washes up, ties on her red apron, and takes her place at his side.

"You're looking quite well," she says.

He chuckles. "Would you expect otherwise?"

"Well, I know you're often here late."

"Yes, we'll have to bring someone else on soon. It's a bit of a stretch with just two, but business is good."

She quickly works her half of the dough into a perfect rectangle, grinning to herself for a moment. "Have you been sleeping well?"

He thinks of Anna's honeyed hair spilling across his chest in the moonlight. "Quite well, actually." When they actually sleep, that is.

He liberally coats the dough with butter, sugar and cinnamon, trying to appear completely focused on the task at hand. Together they carefully lift the sticky edges and ease each section into a tight spiral.

She eyes him sidelong for a moment. "And what of Anna?"

He smiles before he can catch himself. "She's becoming quite a close friend."

"A friend, indeed." Margaret shakes her head with a knowing look.

She sets about slicing the rolled dough with practiced ease while he moves to manage the tea. He always has to chill the loaves first, but his mother can cut them masterfully even when soft. He is reminded that there is no substitute for experience.

"I happened to pass by the shop on my way home from the church last night."

"Oh yes?" He keeps his response carefully neutral.

She pauses her work with the pastry knife for a moment to watch him settle bags of Earl Grey into two of her old cups. The china is delicate but sturdy, dwarfed by his large fingers. He remembers Anna's small hand in his, the pop of the fire from the night before, and the spicy scent of gingerbread.

"Well, maybe times have changed, but I've never kissed a friend quite like that, my boy."

He starts a bit at that, and hisses as the gleaming base of the kettle glances against his ring finger. John chuckles but doesn't immediately comment. His mother means well, he knows.

"Oh, don't look so embarrassed." She triumphantly arranges the cut cinnamon buns on a baking sheet. "You do fancy her, then?"

He fiddles with the milk saucer and gives a small sigh. "She's a breath of fresh air."

"Are you going to call round and take her for dinner?"

"She's in London for the week, actually."

"And when she returns?"

He gives a soft smile. "I'll have to see when she's free, Mum."

She sets out the last roll and dusts her hands on her apron before turning to him with a serious expression. "You best make sure she knows how you feel."

"Mum…" He passes her a cup of tea.

"Don't play it cool like young men do, Johnny. If you are serious, then carry on."

She moves to hug him, squeezes his arm affectionately, then settles onto her favourite stool as he transfers the baking sheet to the oven. The ingredients for the icing are already softening on the counter, and he whisks them together while his mother animatedly relays the latest church news.

Later, after the cinnamon buns are cooled and glazed, he lifts the glass lid to snap a photo for Anna before storing them in the fridge for the night. He has sent William home early, and the shop is warm and still. He pauses for a moment at the back door, surveying the kitchen with a nod of satisfaction before turning out the light and locking the door behind him.

* * *

* For awesomegreentie, who achieved a huge accomplishment this week. Congratulations!

* Also for annambates, who requested a Mama Bates heart-to-heart talk.

* Beta thanks to giginutshell and breakfast-at-bateses.

* terriejane is having a rough time of it, and I hope maybe this makes your week marginally better.


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